The New York Times
bestselling author of Reaper’s Stand
is back in her “uber-alpha rough world of MCs”* as one woman’s future is rocked
by the man whose hardcore past could destroy her…

He never meant to hurt her.

Levi
“Painter” Brooks was nothing before he joined the Reapers motorcycle club. The
day he patched in, they became his brothers and his life. All they asked in
return was a strong arm and unconditional loyalty—a loyalty that’s tested when
he’s caught and sentenced to prison for a crime committed on their behalf.

Melanie
Tucker may have had a rough start, but along the way she’s learned to fight for
her future. She’s escaped from hell and started a new life, yet every night she
dreams of a biker whose touch she can’t forget. It all started out so
innocently—just a series of letters to a lonely man in prison. Friendly.
Harmless. Safe.

Now
Painter Brooks is coming home… and Melanie’s about to learn that there’s no
room for innocence in the Reapers MC.

Excerpt:

Excerpt #1 (New to tour)

“You want
to watch a movie or something?” she asked, nodding toward the TV. I had a
decent one, too. Giant-ass flat-screen—homecoming present from the club.

“Sure,” I
said, reaching for the remote. I didn’t have cable, but Ruger had set up some
kind of box thingie for me so I could stream shit. “Whatcha in the mood for?”

“Not
horror,” she said quickly, and I laughed again, remembering that first evening
I’d spent with her at Pic’s house. She’d been so young and scared and
vulnerable . . . I’d wanted to eat her up.

I still
wanted to eat her.

“I can’t
believe that you and Puck were supposed to be watching over me, and then you
put in a slasher movie. That’s not how you make a girl feel safe.”

“No
horror,” I agreed, although the thought of holding her for a couple hours while
she was scared shitless appealed way more than it should. Watch it, asshole.
“How about Star Wars?”

“I wanted
to be Princess Leia. She’s badass,” she said, taking a deep drink of her beer.
I watched as her lips wrapped around the neck, her throat swallowing. Oh fuck,
that was good. She set the beer down on the coffee table with a clink, then let
loose with the biggest burp I’d ever heard.

She cocked her head, and I saw the confusion in her
alcohol- glazed eyes as she wrinkled her nose at me. All cute, like a rabbit.

“You look like a bunny.”

“You look like an ax murder,” she said, frowning. “And I
thought London was looking for me. Aren’t we going the wrong way?”

“I lied. I do that a lot,” I told her, staring at her
lips. I reached out, catching her chin in my hand, running my thumb across her
lips. Our eyes locked, and I don’t know if her pulse started to rise but mine
sure as fuck did. What the hell had I been thinking, writing to this girl? She
was so pretty and perfect and had this amazing, magical life just waiting for
her and all I could think about was dragging her down into the dirt and shoving
my cock into every hole she had.

She’d scream while I did it, too, the same sweet screams
that played in my head every night while I jacked off.

I hated myself.

“Why did you lie?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

“To get you away from Taz. It’s not safe with him.”

Mel’s forehead creased in confusion, her brain moving so
slowly I could practically see the wheels turning behind her eyes. She might be
smart as fuck most of the time, but she’d transitioned to drunker than fuck
tonight. Kit. Kit and Em. They’d done this to her.

I leaned in closer, catching her scent. For an instant I
swayed, so tempted . . .

“They told me all about you,” she whispered.

“Who?”

“The other girls. Kit, Em. Jessica. I know how you
operate,” she continued. One of her hands rose, touching my chest. Fire burst
through me, because if I’d wanted her before I was desperate for her now. She
was so soft, so sweet . . . so perfect.

Then her words sank in.

“What did you just say?”

“They told me all about you,” she said, eyes dropping to
stare at my lips. “They told me you have a Madonna-whore complex.”
I froze.

“A what?”

“A Madonna-whore
complex,” she repeated, her voice earnest. “You like to screw dirty girls and
you put clean girls on pedestals, where they can stay perfect and pure. That’s
pretty messed up, Painter. There’s no such thing as Madonnas and whores. We’re
all just people.”

The words stunned me. What the hell was she talking about?
Just because I didn’t want her dragged down in the drama and bullshit of this
life didn’t mean I had some sort of fucking complex. And who the hell were the
Hayes sisters to have an opinion? I couldn’t tell what pissed me off more—the
fact that they’d talked to Mel about me or that they hadn’t done a better job
of scaring her off.

She wasn’t supposed to be
here.

“Kit and Em are crazy, and that friend of yours—Jessica?
She’s like a car crash. You don’t belong here, Mel.”

“And where do I belong?”

“With some nice kid who’ll treat you like a queen and work
his ass off to give you everything perfect for the rest of your life.” The
words were practically a growl.

Her eyes widened.

“What if I don’t want perfect?”

“Too fucking bad, because that’s what you’re getting.”

Joanna Wylde
is a New York Times bestselling author and creator of the Reapers Motorcycle
Club series. She currently lives in Idaho.